


We may only live this night

by wolvescall (athenalovina)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27225979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenalovina/pseuds/wolvescall
Summary: After her argument with Jon the night before the Battle of the Bastards, Sansa returned to his tent.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 146





	We may only live this night

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for reading, this is my first time writing Jon/Sansa so I would love feedback!

1.

SANSA

“I won’t _ever_ let him touch you again” Jon had told her, meeting her eyes. Trying to make her believe it. The words had set into her bones like the winter chill. 

He had promised to protect her. But Sansa knew he couldn’t, that his words were empty, a lie. He would die tomorrow, by Ramsay’s hand. And she would too, by her own. The knife was already laid out next to the pelts on the floor of her tent. With her legs pulled up to her chest and her arms around them, she stared at it. She had been cut more times than she could count. Some so deep that they still ached, even though they were scars now. At least this time, the final time, it would be by choice. 

So little in her life had been by choice. She had been powerless against the wills and desires of men. They wanted her; to use, or to scare, or to torture, or to _fuck_. And they got what they wanted. It seemed so deeply, seethingly unfair that she would die only touched by monsters. If this was her last night alive-

Sansa stood up, so quickly it made her dizzy. She let determination set inside her. She let it set over the pain she felt whenever she moved, the ghost of Ramsay in her body. She tried to hold on to it as she pulled the flap of her tent aside and stepped out into the night, beneath a sky filled with stars. 

She walked through the camp, and whenever her determination faltered, she summoned an image of Jon in her mind. When he saw her, at Castle Black. His eyes, his face. His hands letting go of the railing, like it had burned him. She could not stop thinking about his hands. She had turned the memory over and over in her mind countless sleepless nights, thinking about what it meant. 

When Sansa stepped into his tent again, Jon still stood over the map, his brow furrowed in thought. He looked up when she entered. “Sansa”, he said softly, surprised. He looked cautious, like he was expecting her to yell at him again. She didn’t know what to say. It all suddenly seemed like a bad idea. _What if I’m wrong_ , she thought, as she had every night since she first saw him again. _What if I’m wrong and he doesn’t want this at all._ She searched for an excuse, grasped for something to say. He went to her, tilting his head a little so he could catch her gaze. “Sansa?” he said again, concerned. He was so close.

She leaned in and kissed him, a soft and searching kiss. Jon went rigid, and took a step back, like he had at Castle Black. Like she had burned him. He looked at her in disbelief and furrowed his brow again, and Sansa’s weak determination replaced itself with dread. She tried to think of words to string together, an excuse to leave, but it would not come to her. And then suddenly he stepped forward, took her head in his hands and kissed her. A warm, hungry, deep kiss. She kissed him back, with the intensity of every waking night wasted, waiting for this. One of his hands went down to her waist, pulling her closer. “ _Gods_ ” he whispered against her lips, his voice hoarse. There was a clamour outside - wildlings singing a song as they passed by, Sansa thought it sounded like - and Jon tensed. His arm around her waist tightened. She kissed him again, fearing that the spell would break if they stopped. It wasn’t as if the wildlings would care anyway. And tomorrow anyone who did would be dead. 

He broke off the kiss, and pulled her to the back of the tent, behind a curtain. A pile of pelts and furs on the floor, and a candle on a stool. It looked just like her own. _More a wolf’s den than a bed_ , she thought as she sat down on it. She tried to kiss him again, but he pulled away, sitting down on his knees in front of her, his hands resting on her thighs. He was almost panting now, his breath coming out in short huffs. He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” he said finally, eyes still closed and his brow furrowed. “I know he hurt you and I don’t-” He opened his eyes and took her face in his hands. “I could not ask this of you, Sansa.”

“I don’t care if it hurts, Jon. It won’t matter. It’s still you. I want you. _Please_.” She took his hands and laid them at her chest. They were rough and cold. He tried to pull them away but she pressed them close to her breasts. “We may only live this night. I don’t want to waste it.”

She kissed him again, and this time he did not pull away. Instead he pulled her closer, his arm once again around her waist, and his lips warm and searching. His free hand began to pull up her skirts. She helped him get her boots off, and then her wool stockings, and then he had bunched up her skirts enough to bare her legs and kissed them, warm kisses with a little nip of teeth, and in between them he whispered her name again and again. She felt like every kiss lit her body on fire, and she struggled to stay silent. Jon’s eyes glanced up at her as his mouth trailed its way higher and higher up her legs, as if he was drinking her in; savoring her; a memory to keep for when the sun rose over the north and death came to claim the Starks this one final time.

His thumbs hooked in the ribbons of her smallclothes and he pulled them off. She suddenly felt a rush of fear that it was moving too fast. That she might wince when he came into her; that he would stop then and it would all be over. _I want this,_ she told herself. _I want it and I don’t care if it hurts. It’s Jon, it’s just Jon. I want it to be him, this one time. This last time._ Then he bent his head down between her legs, and he kissed her there and she had no room for thinking anymore. Her mind was blank and her body was alive, thrumming with it, all of it, the pain and the pleasure, narrowing into one sharp point where his tongue touched her. Sansa gasped his name and buried her hands in his hair, sharp nails at his scalp, and in return his hands tightened on her thighs. She began to tremble and her mouth tasted sweet and she thought at any moment it would be too much; that her heart might give in. Waves of pleasure rolled up her stomach and she heard her breaths come quicker and quicker in the dense silence and realised that now it was her that was panting. The world faded into white and the force of the pleasure shook her until-

“Commander!” a voice called from outside. Sansa clasped her hands over her mouth. She felt herself flush. Jon sighed heavily and rested his forehead on her hip for a moment. Then he rose, wiped his mouth across the arm of his tunic - it felt strange to see it, but she liked it. She liked that it was _her_ on his lips - and went to see what they had called on him for. Sansa was grateful for the cover of the curtain. She hugged her legs again, like she had in her own tent. _Is it over now?_ she wondered. _Will he come to his senses and send me away?_

Jon came back after only a moment. “It was nothing,” he said. “A brawl. The men are anxious-” He caught himself mid-sentence. “Sorry. Enough of that.” He smiled a small smile. A rare smile. It seemed so out of place. On his knees in front of her again, he looked up at her face. “We may only live this night.” he said, an echo of her own words. Then he kissed her again, _finally_ , and this time Sansa did not let his mouth wander down. She wanted him, fully, the length of him. She parted her legs and then his hips were in between them, and he was kissing her even hungrier than before. 

It was too cold to take their clothes off. And Sansa wouldn’t want him to. It comforted her to feel the coarse fur on his shoulders against her cheek when she kissed his ear, and feel the thick leather of his doublet under her hands. His clothes smelled of him. It made it feel real. It reminded her that this was _Jon_ , not Ramsay. She waited until he was panting again before she reached down to undo the ties at his waist. Jon raised one hand to it as if to stop her, but he didn’t. The ties came loose by her shaking hands and then she could feel him, feel his cock, and it terrified her and made her feel warm at the same time. She wrapped her hand around it and his breath hitched. Sansa liked that sound. She was glad she got to hear it, at least once. 

With a hand on her wrist Jon helped her guide him. And with one soft, careful thrust he was inside her. She closed her eyes. Her mouth fell open and she let out a strained sound. She felt full, filled, on the edge of pain. Jon sensed it and tried to move away, but she dug her fingers into his back. “ _Stay_ ”, she whispered in his ear, her voice shaking. He thrust again, slowly. 

“ _Sansa_ ”, he whispered back, as if he too needed to remind himself that it really was her. He felt good inside her, a good pain, and every time he moved his hips she felt a little less of the pain, and a little more of the pleasure he had teased out with his tongue. His elbows rested on each side of her face and he locked eyes with her with every thrust until he was shaking and panting, and until she couldn’t be quiet. He kissed her again then, while she moaned into his lips. When his thrusts became quicker and she felt like he was close she wrapped her legs around him so he couldn’t pull away - _Stay_ \- and for a moment there was a flash of something like fear in his eyes and then he thrust twice more and went still on top of her, his hips trembling. 

He tried to speak but all words seemed to be lost to him, as they were to her. He rolled off her onto his back, one of his hands resting above his head. They laid silent instead, their strained breaths mingling in the silence. 

Sansa felt a thin trail of his seed spill out from between her legs. But this time, for the first time in her life, the sensation did not fill her with deep, cold dread. 

_You will still be inside me when I die_ , she thought. 

*

Somewhere in the darkest hours of night, Jon fell asleep, with one arm wrapped around her. It hurt to look at his face. All this time, she had thought it better not to hope. No one would come to their aid. All their true allies were long gone, dead and buried in the wasteland that once was the proud north. Sansa laid still beside Jon and prayed a silent prayer, to the old gods and the new, that Littlefinger would not fail her, not again. That the liar had not lied this time. It was a thin hope, as fickle and wavering as the flame of a candle in the winter wind. When she finally fell into light, worried sleep she could see the candle in front of her, flickering until it was almost out; then coming to life again. It grew in the beating of the wind. And in its fire she saw Jon’s face.


End file.
